Burning Paper Skin
by Sonya Omun
Summary: Seimei doesn't like repeating himself. However, when he catches Soubi smoking, he feels the need to reiterate his opinions on the matter. One-shot.


**BURNING PAPER SKIN**

The first sight that greets me as I round the corner is an unwelcome one. Soubi's back is turned to me, blond strands messily splayed out, caught in the fur trimming of his coat. The wind whimsically rearranges his tresses as I can feel it do mine. The Fighter isn't the unwelcome sight – not per se – but what he holds between his fingers, however, is.

'Soubi.'

He is trained well enough not to be visibly startled by my voice, although he turns too swiftly, his eyes darting away to the side. There are no traces of these weaknesses in his sanguine voice when he greets me, steady as ever.

'Good afternoon, Seimei,' he says, inclining his head. The cigarette he holds is discretely hidden from view behind the folds of his plumb coloured coat. It's not good enough.

It's not difficult to smile at Soubi, despite my anger at his lacking attitude. I already know how I'm going to deal with it, and that knowledge soothes me. 'Did you not expect to see me? You look surprised.'

'Did Seimei not wish to meet me here?' Soubi's senses are keen enough to be aware of his folly, the question a pathetic attempt to underline his obedience in the eyes of his master. No, it simply won't do.

'Aren't you going to invite me in, Soubi?' Windswept locks of hair fall in front of my eyes when I cock my head at him. He glances at me, the skin of his forehead rippling with a frown that does not linger before he turns to lead us back to the door of his apartment.

My orders about smoking in my presence are quite clear, and Soubi knows he cannot enter with the cigarette that still quietly smokes stench between his fingers. Without looking at me, the blond lifts up his foot to stub out the ember against his sole, and then proceeds to open the door, stepping aside to let me gain entry ahead of him.

Clearly, Soubi had assumed for us to go somewhere, since I told him to meet me outside. Over half a dozen paintings loiter around the room, along with a haphazardly stacked pile of school books. The largest of the square canvas shapes rests against the far wall, covered up by a cloth that would be white, if not for the dust stains. Usually, I would take the time to impress upon Soubi that his apartment always needs to be in a suitable condition to receive me, but I know he has committed a greater affront this time.

'Soubi,' I turn to where the Fighter quietly stands, eyes downcast, 'did I not share with you my opinions on smoking?'

'Yes, Seimei, you did,' Soubi answers without hesitation. There is no use for him to deny it.

Closing some of the distance between us, I smile, knowing he can hear it in my voice even if he is not looking at me. 'And yet you were smoking when I arrived.' I don't wait for confirmation this time, holding out my palm. 'Your cigarettes, Soubi.'

Pale fingers reach for his back pocket, and Soubi produces the carton without another word, placing it, logo-up, in my hand. I flip open the top, presenting to Soubi the half dozen or so filters that accusingly stare back like round, white eyes. 'Take one,' I say amicably, 'Light it.'

Again, there is no hesitation in Soubi's compliance, but I can tell my Fighter's hand lacks its usual steadiness when he reaches for a cigarette. Within the confines of Soubi's modestly sized room, the scent of the cigarette is all the more affronting. The dry stench of smoke is intensified by the residual smell of tobacco that had bled into every wall and floorboard of Soubi's home years ago.

When the cigarette is steadily curling smoke, coaxed into lighting by Soubi's softly sucking lips, I reach out to pluck it from his hand. I only hold it between thumb and forefinger, wanting as little of that acrid smell transferring to my skin as possible.

'Tell me, Soubi, what do you think about burns?' I drawl, dropping the carton and its detestable content on the nearby table.

Soubi's face is unreadable. Instead of answering, he reaches for the top button of his shirt, beginning to unfasten it. I smile at the assumption. 'What do you think you're doing?'

Fingers freezing on the penultimate button, Soubi's eyes find mine. A note of insecurity softens his tone even more than usual. 'I'm sorry, I thought that Seimei wished to...' he doesn't finish, knowing better than to express having any kind of expectations from me.

'I asked you about burns.' I smile, ignoring the smoke wafting up so close to my face as I still hold the smouldering cigarette. 'Heat causes extensive damage, wouldn't you agree? Not just to skin and flesh.'

Very slowly, I draw my gaze through the room. Setting my sights on the nearest painting – one of Soubi's incessant works of butterflies – I squat down besides the canvas.

'Nothing can undo the taint of something charred by flame.' I smile genuinely now, as I always do when I punish Soubi.

I take my time to choose a spot – ah, there: where the intricate display of colour on the butterfly's wing is painstakingly mixed, appearing as though set aglow by an invisible sun. Ash flecks the painting's surface when I turn the cigarette, glowing tip facing downward before I begin to lower it towards the painted cloth. 'Smoking is an addiction, Soubi. A weakness. Beloved will never show weakness.'

Slowly, _slowly, _I press the burning ember down, giving it time to eat its way through layers of paint without extinguishing. Lifting it, I repeat the movement several times, burning black shapes, perfectly rounded, along the butterfly´s colourful form. Every press of the amber flame is met with a hiss. The paint yields, turning slick like fresh blood as the blazing heat presses through until it meets the cloth bone on which painted skin rests. A sickly smell joins the stench of smoke while I meticulously scar the flesh of Soubi's art.

When I look up, Soubi is too late in lowering his head, giving me clear view of the wide eyes with which he stares at me, frozen in place. Straightening my knees, I examine the cigarette in a bored fashion. Its glow of flame is weak, mostly smothered until smoke barely coils from the paper. I drop it on the wooden floor, uncaring of any singe marks. 'A Fighter needs to be focussed, ready at all times, and thus cannot have a dependence that dulls the mind when not frequently met.'

I hold out my hand again. 'Light another one.'

In the time it takes Soubi to ignite another cigarette, I have already chosen my next target. Holding the newly-smoking aggravation, I stride over to the covered up painting resting against the wall. While he had appeared unperturbed at the notion that I wished to discipline him through burning, a look of distress crosses Soubi's face when I take hold of the cloth with three fingers – lest I soil my whole hand.

'Smoking in public is nothing more than flaunting your dependence on a substance. It's unseemly,' I inform Soubi over my shoulder, pulling away the sheet.

Admittedly, I am surprised at what is revealed. Having expected another incarnation of a butterfly, I'm taken aback at the powerful play of colour that emerges. The backdrop is a scarlet that instantly brings back memories of that fateful day that I marked Soubi – for once uncaring of the dirtiness that stickily coated my hands all the way up to my wrists. The figure in the painting is done in monochrome, stark white features with jet black hair, and possibly even darker eyes. I raise an eyebrow as I stare at myself, so skilfully recreated on the canvas.

The only other colour apart from red, white and black is a meek periwinkle in the form of chain links that are attached to the sternum of the Seimei in the painting. The chain stretches on beyond the border of the canvas, connected to something unseen.

Turning slowly, I'm only greeted by the sight of the crown of Soubi's head. Blond hair cascades past his cheeks as the Fighter keeps his chin pressed to his clavicle, attempting to hide eyes that in all likelihood speak the volumes that this painting so blatanly shows already.

I wait, patient – one cannot rush discipline. It takes longer than it should before Soubi drags up his gaze to meet mine. The look Soubi gives me is pitiful, a pleading glance through his lashes that not only silently beseeches me to spare the painting, but to _approve of it._

I scowl with disgust.

It's not necessary to spread my punishing destruction across much of the painting's surface. I give the canvas a final glance – striking, masterfully crafted, and beyond loathsome in its implications. I never intend to lay eyes on it again.

The flame hisses its eager malice when I press the burning end of the cigarette to the painting, against the humble blue links of the chain. Crushing the white stick to the careful brush strokes, created with such reverent precision, I give the cigarette a final _twist._ When I release it, it does not fall, the hole that it burnt through all layers of the canvas keeping it lodged in place.

Stepping back, I admire my addition. The cigarette, ugly and out of place, breaks the blue shape of the chain. Compared to the radiant, marble skin of the painted Seimei, even the cigarette's white paper looks dirty. From the ruined painted link where the cigarette sits embedded, a mournful wisp of smoke rises, like from cooling metal.

Turning sharply on my heel, I walk past my motionless Fighter, only repeating in a flat voice: 'It's unseemly.'

Opening the door, I exit without another word. The autumn air outside is fresh, inviting, and I take it in with zeal after the suffocating atmosphere of smoke, paint, and repressed desires. I smile, knowing from Soubi's emotionless face and dead eyes as had I left that I successfully reminded him what it means to be mine.

**END**

Author's Note: As always: thank you so very much for your time! Comments are always greatly appreciated.


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